I will leave soon Like the rustling wind in winter that makes you shiver.
You want it gone, but once it passes you will be really cold.
Put on a jacket. Put on another.
I can’t promise to take away the knives buried in your front.
Believe that there are none in your back
– I made a shrine out of it (and no one stands armed in places of worship).
The knives were meant to cut butter.
You were soft, despite all the churning. Forgive me.
There will be a breeze, perhaps a blizzard,
that reminds you of the way my hair flew around, and of the destruction in my eyes.
The house you build next without me will brave all storms. Make a home in it.
You will remember that you waltzed with the winds as your feet dug into mounds of sand.
You will find grains of time trapped between your toes and in the back of your mind.
Don’t put the ashes of my anamnesis in the river of your sorrow.
Build me a grave along the banks, let time bury me as you kill it.
Walk away from the sea of the dead.
I can’t promise to take all your memories of myself along.
You will be born again, an infant baptised – always reminded and made aware of the sins you needed to be washed of.
Rise above the dogma. Become a non-believer.
I will leave soon
You will take your heart someplace safer, and let it beat.
I will take what you will never miss
– a dine-in bill, a ticket stub, the mark on my shoulder,
– Vartika Rastogi
( punkrockandreticence )
Photograph by Abhinavanand Singh.